Darkness
by repmetsyrrah
Summary: S/T AU. Shortly after returning to Ireland from Edith's failed wedding, Tom is left permanently blind in an accident. Forced to return to Downton, the Bransons face their new reality together.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is not a proper chaptered fic but more a collection of moments and scenes in an alternate Downton universe where Tom was left permanently blinded following his and Sybil's return to Ireland after Edith's wedding. Also in this AU are my fics _Beautiful_ and _Touch_ (m-rated).

Thanks to babaganeush on Tumblr for the beta.

**Darkness**

* * *

Sybil doesn't know what else to do. She can't write, how can she put it in words?

She calls.

She explains, calmly and efficiently, about the raid on Tom's office. She skips over the terror she had felt at the news, the chaos the hospital had been in when she'd arrived. The confusion, the fear, as they were informed of fatalities and the dread as she waited with the other family members to hear the identities of the dead.

She doesn't tell them how she had spent the night crouched on a hospital chair in the corner with her arms wrapped around her stomach, holding onto the one piece of Tom she knew was still with her. How the baby had kicked and she had cried, not knowing if its father was lying above her in a bed or below on a slab.

She did tell her mother how Tom's family had shown up early in the morning, she told her how they were among the lucky ones. How they had been lead upstairs to where Tom lay, bloodied and bruised but alive.

But then she stops. Her voice won't work. She doesn't want to keep going, as if saying the words will make them all too real.

"Sybil?" her mother sounds close to tears herself.

Sybil gathers her strength.

"He can't see." The words burst out and there, she's told them. It's done.

But of course it's not so easy.

"I don't understand."

Sybil forces herself not to cry. She takes a shuddering breath. "He can't see, Mama," she says. "In the raid, Tom was injured and now he can't see."

"He's blind?"

She flinches. _No_, she wants to scream. No he's not blind.

He's Tom, Tom who can't see.

"He can't see," she says again and now she's sobbing into the phone, clutching it desperately as if it's her mother's hand and she wants so badly to be wrapped in her arms again, like a child, so safe and warm.

But she's an ocean away and she has to be her own strength, for herself, for the baby. For her husband who had panicked so much when he realised he couldn't see that he hadn't been able to breathe either.

"The doctor says he might never see."

"Oh, my baby," Cora is crying now, and Sybil thinks this is probably everything she ever feared the moment the chauffeur walked into the drawing room.

"Mama." The single word is all she can manage but it's enough.

"Sybil, we're coming."

* * *

He opens his eyes.

It's been two days but the fear is still as intense as the first time.

"Sybil?"

He calls out into the darkness.

"Tom." He almost cries at the sound of her voice. "Tom I'm here." A hand takes his and he feels her lips press against his knuckles.

"I can't see, love." He's told her before, every time he's drifted into consciousness. But he has to say it again, out loud, he has to make it real or else he might not believe it himself.

"I know."

He wants to see her face.

"Can I speak to the doctor?"

She hesitates for a moment before, "I'll just go find him."

He hears her leave.

He's alone.

In the dark.

He tries to breathe. It probably isn't even dark. It could be the middle of the day. He can't hear anything outside but he has no idea where in the hospital he is. He might be at the back, far from the road.

He hears a noise.

"Hello?"

There's no reply and suddenly he's scared. He's alone in the dark and anything could be coming.

He feels like a child again, he wants to run into his parents' bedroom and hide under their sheets. He wants his father to turn the light on so he can see again. He wants his mother to hold him and assure him everything will be okay.

He wants his wife.

"Sybil!"

"Tom?" She's returned and he leans back into the bed, relief coursing through him.

He wants to tell her he was afraid, that he couldn't find her and he couldn't see where she had gone because it's too dark.

But there's a second set of footsteps and it all remains unsaid as the doctor explains in a cold and detached voice that his eyes had been damaged during the raid and it's caused him to lose his sight.

None of that is news to him, there's only one thing he needs to know.

"Will it come back?" He's surprised at how utterly calm his voice is. Inside he's terrified.

"It's unlikely."

Two words. He feels his life fall apart in two simple words.

If he were a Lord like she deserved he'd be fine. If he had a rich family who could hire a nurse for him, set him in a quiet cottage somewhere on their sprawling estate and pay for his care.

His wife is from that world, but he's not. And in his world, a blind man might as well be a dead one.

He can't see but he can hear. He hears the doctor leave. And in the dark, he hears his wife crying.

"Don't cry, love," he begs her quietly. "Please don't cry."

He reaches out and finds her hand waiting.

He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and prays as hard as he ever has to a God he's not even sure is listening anymore.

_Please_, he thinks. _Please, God, no. Not now, she deserves better, lord. Let me give her better than a jobless, blind pauper. Don't make me beg her family to take care of us. _

_Don't leave me alone in the dark._

_Please._

The bed shifts as Sybil climbs up on it, curling herself into his waiting embrace.

He opens his eyes.

It's still dark, but he's not alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **So babgeneush asked for a blind Tom fic where Sybil helps him shave and this happened. Another thanks to babgeneush for the beta.

**Morning**

* * *

He's afraid to open his eyes.

He wonders if he already has, he wouldn't know. Not really.

It's their last morning here, in their flat, in Dublin. His last morning in Ireland for God knows how long.

He's facing Sybil, curling into her chest, their arms around each other, her still-growing stomach safe between them. He shifts and without opening his eyes, places a hand on the bump, drawing comfort from the child he already loves so much.

It had been decided, by both her family and his, that Downton was the best option for them now. Even his staunchly anti-English siblings had agreed, putting aside their prejudices out of love for their little brother.

"Things have changed for you now, Tommy," Joe told him sadly, as if Tom was unaware of it. "And if they'll look after you then you need to go."

At Downton he would have help, it was the only place they knew that could (and would) take and look after a family whose husband and father could no longer provide the support he was meant to.

He had promised to take her away from that place, give her a new life and now he's failed her. He's failed their child.

He opens his eyes.

Nothing changes.

The world is still as dark as it had been before, the only indication of morning being the sounds outside on the street as the daily commute to work begins.

Lady Grantham is probably still asleep in her posh hotel room and in the spare room next to them the silence indicates Matthew hasn't woken either.

He feels Sybil shift in his arms and give a small groan as the morning hits her. On a normal day he'd laugh as she woke up with a little pout on her face, like the sun was being so terribly cruel to her to rise so early. He might tease her as she grumbled and pulled the sheets over her head.

_Are you waiting for Anna to bring your tray up, m'lady? _He might say, pulling the sheets back down. She would try to protest but inevitably he would win her over, either with a kiss, or if they had time, something more.

He wonders if she has that adorable little frown on her face now as she gives another sigh. He refuses to accept he'll never see it, never see her face again as long as he lives. He will have to one day, but he's not ready yet. Not when it's been less than a week since he saw her smile as she waved him off to work on that last day.

"Morning."

"Morning," she replies softly and he feels a hand on his face, her fingers brushing the skin just below his eyes. He wonders what he looks like, what she's seeing now. But she doesn't say anything about it, just giving a sigh and reminding him they needed to get up.

She helps him out of his pyjamas and into his suit and if he wasn't thinking about how much of a burden he was to her now he would have made a joke about her applying for a job as a valet or ladies maid. She wasn't even a nurse anymore, not the way she wanted to be at least. She was to be _his_ nurse now, having assured her mother there was no need to hire a complete stranger when she was more than capable of caring for her husband herself.

She guides him to the chair once his shoes are on and he sits obediently, listening to her move around.

He wonders what she's putting on. He hopes it's something nice.

Idly he runs a hand over his face, still waking up himself and frowns as he feels the stubble from four days in hospital.

He needs to shave. The simple thought occurs to him as it does almost every morning but suddenly it's not so simple any more.

The nurses and doctors had spoken to him briefly about his new 'situation'. They had assured him that with time he could learn to do things like that again but he's only been blind a week. He can't even start to look for his razor.

Not that he wants to try. He'd probably cut his fingers off just trying to locate the damn thing.

"I can do it," he hears his wife offer quietly and he realises she must be watching him. "I used to help the soldiers at Downton during the war," she adds.

"I don't even know where my razor is."

"It's right there," she says and Tom instinctively turns to her voice, but he can't see where she means. He can't see anything. "I mean," he hears her voice again, in the dark, quieter, and he thinks he hears a slight catch in it. "It's on the dresser," she tells him.

There's more noises, something metallic being picked up maybe? Then her footsteps again and the door opening .

"Where are you going?" He's almost glad he can't see her then, the pity that's bound to be on her face at the sound of his voice, so desperate and scared of being left alone.

"Just to get some water and your shaving cream," she assures him. "I'll be back in a minute and I'll help you in here. So we won't be in Matthew's way when he gets up."

He nods. _So you won't have to worry about Matthew seeing how useless you are now._

Perhaps not how she would have said it, but it's what the words mean.

She returns shortly and he hears her moving around as she talks, reminding him of the time the ferry leaves and the train they're catching. They'll arrive just before dinner- he wonders if he'll be expected to attend.

He jumps as he feels something warm and wet touch his face. "Sorry," she apologises, pulling the brush back.

"No, it's okay." He sits up and she continues, lathering the cream onto his face.

"I'm going to start now," she tells him, and he's glad she warns him this time, the brush was harmless but he'd hate to think how guilty she may have felt if he'd flinched at the touch of the blade.

She gently places one hand on his face to hold him steady as the other scraps the razor along his cheek and Tom tries to hold still, ignoring the instinct to lean into her touch. He's briefly surprised to find she does know what she's doing, her strokes short and quick but completely confident.

He doesn't want to talk in case he distracts her so she works mostly in silence, the only sounds the scraping of the razor and the occasional splash of water when she rinses the blade.

She does his cheeks first and he sits quietly, letting her turn his head gently and pulling his lips in to make his skin taut for her when she moves around his mouth.

She finishes both sides of his face and he raises his chin a little higher, frowning after a few moments when he doesn't feel the blade again.

"I can't go back half-shaved," he says, putting it back down and trying to sound joking but not quite managing. Sybil gives a little laugh but the sound is forced.

"Lift your chin up then," she instructs him. He tilts his head up obediently and she leans in closer.

He knows because her rounded stomach touches his knees and he has to resist the urge to put his hands on it, to remind himself of the one thing that he still had to give him hope in this new life. But he thinks she's concentrating and an unexpected touch could startle her. And he rather thinks it won't do anyone any good if she slits his throat.

She gives a relieved sigh and he feels the blade leave his skin. "All done. Better?" she asks softly, pressing a towel into his hands.

He gives a small smile and nods as he wipes the excess cream off his face.

Sybil kisses him gently and moves away.

He reaches out but she must have stood because his hand hits her hip instead of falling lightly on her shoulder. He feels a flush of embarrassment but before he can pull it back her hand catches his.

"What?" she asks softly.

He hesitates, then gently twists his hand around so he's holding hers instead. He gives a gentle tug and pulls her down until she sits on his lap and allows him to pull her into his arms and kiss her again.

It's slow and new. They take their time and it's not passion or lust or any kiss they've shared before.

It's not any situation they've faced before.

The kiss is comfort and reassurance. A promise that whatever comes from this, wherever it forces them they will go together, and survive it together. It's soft but desperate, afraid, and all she can do is hold him and let him hold her.

When they stop they don't separate, and Tom is grateful, he's not sure he can bear to have her turn back into a voice and footsteps just yet, he needs to have her touch, at least for a little while longer.

"Are you ready?" her voice is quiet, but with a reminder that they can't stay like this forever. They have to meet the ferry soon, but not yet. And right now-

"No," he answers truthfully.

"Okay." She moves so she can press her lips to the top of his head and rub her hands over his back, comforting him as best she can. "We'll wait."

They stay and Tom closes his eyes pretending, only for a moment, that the darkness is a choice.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** As you can tell, I'm writing more in this AU, I'm not sure how much more but this isn't it. When I post these on Tumblr I do so as separate fics but I'm posting them all as 'chapters' here to keep it tidy. But just so you know, these chapters are all separate and most likely, in future, will not be in chronological order.

This is just a short little moment, but I thought I'd post it over here anyway. I've been kinda overwhelmed by the response to this AU, thank you so much for all the kind words and reviews.

**Watching**

* * *

She awakens to the touch of fingers trailing slowly over face, down her nose and across her lips.

She can't help the smile then but it disappears quickly as the touch draws away. She frowns and turns to see Tom looking embarrassed, like she'd caught him doing something he wasn't supposed to, folding his arm back close to his chest.

Without speaking she rolls over and picks up his hand, laying it on her cheek and holding it there.

"You don't have to stop," she tells him. "You can touch me. Whenever you want."

He turns his head away from her slightly, even without sight the instinct to avoid her gaze when he's uncomfortable too strong to resist.

She takes his hand off her cheek and holds it to her lips.

"I like that you still watch me sleep," she tells him softly, knowing that was what he had been doing.

"This is different," he sighs.

"No," she tells him, "it's not, not at all."

"I woke you," he points out, "I didn't mean too."

His dull eyes stare blankly at nothing as he talks and, as it has countless times before, Sybil feels her heart break as she tries to imagine the world he lives in now. Made up of only noise and touch, lacking all light and colour. She doesn't know if she would be strong enough to survive what he was trying to endure.

"Please," she begs, "Tom, I want you to see me, whenever you want. You used to watch me all the time, I rather liked it," she admits with a small smile.

"_Touching_ you is different," he repeats.

"Not now," she says softly. Not for a blind man.

"Anyway, I'm your wife," she reminds him, still smiling. "You should be allowed to touch me."

But Tom frowns.

"Being your husband doesn't automatically give me the rights to your body," he says stubbornly and she's caught in a strange mix of pure love and utter frustration at his words.

"Oh for goodness sake," she sighs. "Tom, I miss it, alright? The way you used to look at me."

She's said the wrong thing then, his face closes up and he shuts his eyes. She knows him well enough to know he's taken that to heart and she wants to hit herself for being so careless.

"Tom, I didn't mean that."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Never think that."

"I know, I don't," he assures her and she knows even if he is Catholic, he's not the sort to feel guilt for things he had no control over, "but I'm still sorry I can't give it to you anymore."

"But you can," she insists. "You were. Just before-" She lifts his hand again and lays a kiss on his palm, trailing it down her face as he had been doing when she woke. "I liked that, I woke up smiling."

He remains silent, but his expression is one of a man on of the verge of tears.

"It felt nice," she continues, "not just you touching me-" which had always and always would, feel so incredible. "But that you were _looking_ at me again."

He doesn't move, his empty eyes remain pointed at the ceiling.

"Please, Tom," she tries again. "Please don't do this. Don't deny yourself something I _want_ to give you."

He's facing her again now and the longing on his face is clear. She wants to cry again as she watches him, thinking how desperately she would miss his face if it was taken from her. She already misses his clear, sparkling blue eyes more than she can say.

But she's shed too many tears already and she doesn't want him to hear her cry again.

"Okay," he agrees finally, his words soft. "But if it's ever not alright…"

"Tom," Sybil sighs shaking her head, "if you _ever_ think I wouldn't tell you if I didn't want you doing something then I'm not sure who you thought you were marrying but it wasn't me."

He laughs and, without saying anything, lifts his hand to her face, running a finger over her answering grin.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** This chapter's a bit different as it's not Sybil or Tom but it's in response to a message on tumblr from finneganlee, who asked: _"Have you though about doing one where the staff is told about what has happened? It would be interesting to see Thomas' reaction/response to this because of his experiences with Lt. Courtnay and Sybil and if he'd want to help."_

Thanks to babgeneush for the beta.

**Kind**

* * *

It happens faster than anyone can fully process. One moment the Countess of Grantham is sobbing after a phone call from her youngest daughter, the next she's packing her bags and organising a trip to Ireland.

Thomas doesn't have time to consider much about it as he packs Mr. Crawley's bags, unsure as to why, of all people, he is accompanying her Ladyship, but he knows better than to ask. Instead he silently curses Mr. Molesley's choice of half-day as he struggles to locate everything that may be needed.

It's only once the car arrives back from the station that everyone is given a moment to think- and talk.

It isn't long before the rumours start forming, thick and fast. Her husband had been arrested, there were problems with the baby, or perhaps she had finally seen her mistake in marrying below her and was begging to come home.

Thomas doesn't put stock in that last one at least. He knows Lady Sybil better than any of them, the fact they would even think that of her just proves it.

It isn't long before the rumours become distracting, slowing work and getting in the way of their jobs, and Mr. Carson gathers them all in the servants' hall.

"I have become aware of gossip currently circulating regarding Lady Sybil and Her Ladyship's sudden departure to Ireland with Mr. Crawley," he begins, his tone stern and serious. "Normally I would ask you to simply cease such gossip and go about your work." He pauses slightly, sharing an unreadable look with Mrs Hughes, who stands beside him at the head of the table.

"However," he continues, "I am making an exception today as you will find this out sooner or later and if you know now, we can begin to prepare."

There's a slight flurry of whispers and confused looks which stop quickly at a single look from the butler.

"As many of you will know, Mr. Branson, Lady Sybil's husband, now works as a journalist, for a newspaper with... different views from our government. Two days ago, his workplace was subject to a raid by the police."

He hesitates then, clearly unsure of how to continue.

"Was he injured, Mr. Carson?" Daisy asks, wide-eyed and filled with genuine concern for a good man they all know well.

Mr. Carson shares a look with Mrs Hughes and Thomas knows Mr. Branson has been injured somehow. He couldn't be dead, they would have known by now, but injured, and by the looks on their faces, badly.

Thomas can't bring himself to find any pleasure in the news. He'd never treat the man as a superior but he doesn't dislike him as much as he pretends; no one downstairs does.

Mr. Branson had been friendly and polite to everyone, always a little separated living in his own cottage, but always reliable, and never on anyone's bad side. They disliked what he'd done, but no one dislikes _him_, not really.

Mr. Carson's next words confirm his suspicions, but instead of satisfying his curiosity and allowing Thomas to move on from the guessing game, they almost knock the wind out of him.

"Unfortunately," the butler announces solemnly, "Mr. Branson suffered an injury of some sort to his eyes and has been left blinded. From what Lady Sybil told her Ladyship, permanently."

Blind.

_Edward_.

The two are never far apart in Thomas' mind. Edward was the first blinded soldier he'd dealt with but not the last. And every single one after had reminded him of the one man he should have fought harder for.

Not one of them had borne the injury with Edward's strength. Most had taken weeks to even accept it, let alone accept the help he offered.

He wonders how Mr. Branson is coping.

"But... might the doctor be wrong?" Anna asks, though there's little confidence in her words.

"_It doesn't help me to be lied to, you know."_

It wouldn't help Mr. Branson either. It never helped anyone.

"Perhaps," Mrs Hughes tells her, "but I don't think anyone would be so cruel unless they were sure."

"_Everything I'll never do again."_

It was a cruel fate, Thomas used to think it one of the worst. Watching Edward's strength as he had learnt to adapt had changed that.

Burying him had confirmed it.

"Though no plans have been set out just yet," Mr. Carson tells them all, "Her Ladyship appeared to believe she would be returning with both Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil. As such, we must prepare for their arrival as we usually would, as well as making allowances for... Mr. Branson's condition."

"I can help with that, Mr. Carson." The words escape Thomas' mouth before he even has a chance to remind himself where he is.

Almost every head turns and almost every set of eyes looks at him with surprise. He ignores them all.

"Thank you, Thomas," Mrs Hughes says after a moment, "that's most kind."

Edward was the last person to ever call him that.

Thomas only nods, not trusting himself to speak.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **This was inspired by a picture and a comment The Yankee Countess made on Tumblr. The link is on my profile page. You don't really need the pic though, and I hope this somewhat satisfies people who keep asking for something happier.

I really need to start sorting dates for these at some point because this takes place several months after the first chapter but these aren't getting written or posted in chronological order.

**Proper**

* * *

It's the almost inaudible _tap_ that alerts her.

Mary continues talking, her ears not as attuned to the sound as her sister's.

_Tap._

Another, closer this time. Sybil feels her face twitch slightly, a smile already forming.

_Tap._

Mary and Edith hear it this time and all three of them look up to see Tom rounding the corner, tapping his cane against the pillar.

He's not yet confident enough to walk at a normal pace but to Sybil it seems not long ago at all he wasn't even confident enough to leave their bedroom alone. Now he's capable of getting almost anywhere in the house of his own accord and just last week he'd managed a trip to Crawley house on his own. Though he'd promised not to do it again without telling someone after he'd sent Sybil into a fit of worry when she'd been able to locate everyone else but him.

"I'm not interrupting am I?" he asks, placing a hand on the pillar to orientate himself.

"Not at all," Edith assures him brightly. "We were just about to call for tea, you're welcome to join us."

"If it's alright."

"Of course," Mary agrees, nodding.

"It's just the three of us," Sybil tells him, knowing he would be wondering but wouldn't ask. "Matthew went to see his mother."

Tom nods and releases his hold on the pillar, sweeping his cane in front of him as he makes his way towards the sisters. Edith stands up to ring the bell but Mary just watches as he slowly comes towards them.

He holds his cane in his left hand, swinging it from side to side, but he has yet to learn to relax his right completely, holding it out slightly, partly for balance and partly from a still-unbroken habit born of not being able to see.

He's more confident in the library than other rooms and his cane soon hits the leg of the chair beside the sofa. He frowns slightly, reaching out a hand to grasp the back and moving the cane up onto the seat, checking the height before stepping around and lowering himself onto it.

"How's your article coming along?" Edith asks, as he sits back and rests his cane against the sofa.

"I'm having a bit trouble to be honest," Tom admits, frowning slightly, his blank eyes unmoving as his head turns vaguely in her direction.

"With the typewriter?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No, not at all, that's been brilliant. The issue is with the words," Tom tells her with a laugh. "I know exactly what I want to say but the trouble is finding the proper way to say it. I was getting frustrated up there so I thought I'd go for a walk and see if that didn't clear my head."

He reaches out and Sybil's hand meets his automatically, as it always has and always will. She wants to say something but suddenly, hearing him talk so easily about his writing when not so long ago he'd feared he'd never work again, knowing he felt comfortable enough to come looking for her on his own when once he couldn't even get out of bed without holding her hand...

She's quite unable to find the proper words herself.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: For piperholmes who posted a pic on Tumblr as inspiration for this and also for my lovely beta, babageneush who also suggested a fic of blind Tom's first dinner at Downton.

**Dinner**

* * *

He doesn't want to be here.

He doesn't want to be in England.

He doesn't want to be at Downton Abbey.

But mostly and far more immediately, he does _not_ want to be _here_, sitting at Lord Grantham's table, trying to pretend like nothing's changed, like he's not so useless now that every other meal since the raid his wife has had to help feed him like a child.

They take their meals in their room since their return to Downton, Sybil begging tiredness from her progressing pregnancy and Tom so he doesn't have to suffer the indignity of having an audience as his wife-turned-nurse cuts up his food for him.

She hadn't asked him to come down tonight. Not in so many words. But he knew she missed eating with her family and he knew he was the only reason she wasn't.

So he brings it up, hesitantly at first but she isn't able to hide the happiness in her voice at his suggestion and he hasn't the heart to change his mind that night, when he realises he's most likely made a mistake.

"You'll be fine," she assures him before they go down, kissing him gently.

They're polite in the drawing room, stepping skilfully around his injury, asking about the baby, and talking about the new fashions in London.

When they move to the dining room, no one ignores him outright but for the most part the conversation moves without him. It's less awkward, he finds, when people are talking. He can imagine that no one's paying the poor, blind man any attention and it makes him less nervous.

The soup is thankfully simple. There's one awkward moment of silence when it's being served until Sybil touches his arm lightly and tells him Mr. Carson is waiting on him.

"It's chicken and mushroom tonight," Edith informs him from across the table.

"Here," he hears a scrape of a chair next to him. "I'll do it." He sits quietly, silently suffering the shame of having his wife spoon out his food for him.

Once he finds his own spoon it's easy enough though. He leans forward a little more than necessary but he knows where the bowl is and he knows that there's only the one utensil he needs and it's just to the bowl and then his mouth and back and he can manage that.

The other courses are more difficult.

Alfred is the most considerate, leaning right over, quietly telling Tom every dish he has and offering to serve for him too.

Mr. Carson however, feels the need to announce every dish rather loudly, as if to remind everyone that it's time for him to serve the cripple.

After the second time it happens, another voice cuts in, surprising him.

"Carson, I do believe it's only Branson's sight that's gone, not his hearing," the Dowager Countess informs him dryly.

Someone laughs lightly and he hears a low grumble next to him.

He's careful to keep track of what's on his plate so he can make educated guesses as to what his fork might be hitting and whether he needs to attempt to use his knife on it or not.

There's an unpleasant moment when Lord Grantham loudly comments that they'll be there until the sun comes up if he insists on eating his peas three at a time and he realizes everyone else must have finished a while ago.

"Why don't you try eating with your eyes closed and see how you like it?" Sybil cuts in sharply, though Tom wishes she hadn't.

"I'm done anyway," he says quietly, dropping his fork like it's burned him.

An awkward silence follows before he hears his plate being removed and Matthew forces a start to the conversation by asking Sybil how she's feeling now they're getting close to the birth.

Mrs. Crawley, or Isobel when he remembers, is sitting on his other side and when the conversation starts to splinter into twos and threes he finds himself talking to her about the comfortably mundane topic of her garden and thinking that perhaps, this could be alright after all.

It's not until near the end of the second to last course that he finally does what he knows they've all been waiting for.

It's his fault, entirely, but he can't help a slight stab of irritation at whoever thought it necessary to use a hundred different glasses for one meal.

He should have paid more attention but he's relaxed and he reaches out almost without thinking. However, instead of the smaller glass he thought he was aiming for with his fingers, his knuckles hit the large one and before he can react, he feels it tip followed by the sharp sound of it shattering on the table.

Instinctively his hand reaches forward but without sight he's unable to see the danger and there's a stinging pain in his finger as he accidently slices it on a shard.

He jerks his arm back reflexively and his elbow smacks something else, followed by another shattering sound. He finds himself shaking as he holds his injured hand to his chest, bowing his head as he feels his face flush with embarrassment.

There's complete silence and he wonders how they're looking at him. Annoyance? Anger? Pity?

A whispered conversation breaks out across the table and while his other senses have increased in the absence of his sight, he's not able to identify the speakers or what they're saying.

Instead he keeps his head down, hoping desperately that someone will say something so he knows where he stands with them now.

Before the accident he never realised how much he relied on things that were unspoken. On the looks and expressions that were now lost to him forever. If no one's talking, he doesn't know what's happening.

"Are you okay?" Mary's voice asks from his right.

"Sorry," he says automatically, not really an answer but all he can think to tell them.

"You're bleeding," Sybil tells him quietly but he can feel the wetness of it on his hand already.

"It's okay," he assures her, but he hears her chair scrape and his injured hand is lifted in one of hers while the other strokes his hair, a gesture that is usually immensely comforting but which he suddenly finds humiliating in front of her entire family.

He feels a hand on his other arm, and Mrs. Crawley gives it a comforting pat. "It's nothing serious," she says a moment later, loud enough for the whole table to hear. "Just a little cut."

"And two of our best glasses."

Tom flinches at the words, but Matthew's voice breaks the awkward silence. "That's hardly important," he says in a level tone.

"Tom's done very well," Edith adds but Tom just wants them to stop. He knows they mean well but he feels like a child who's failed a test.

"I think-" But his voice is either too quiet or no one is listening.

"Clearly he's not ready to be out yet," his father-in-law states plainly, as if Tom is nothing more than an ill-trained dog.

"_Robert!_" the horrified exclamation from Lady Grantham is followed quickly by another from his wife.

"_Papa_." It would be so much better if Sybil was angry but she sounds more hurt than anything and Tom feels his heart break a little.

Sybil's hand is still holding the back of his head, and he can feel the tension caused by her father's words. He doesn't want her to have to endure another argument; he may not be able to do much now but he can at least spare her that.

"Maybe we should go clean my hand up," Tom hears himself say, unable to keep his voice breaking slightly.

"I think that would be best," Lord Grantham agrees.

This time, no one argues.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **This is just a short little moment in this AU. I've had this one a while and I was thinking I could maybe fit it into a longer fic somewhere but, small as it is, I decided I quite like it on it's own.

**Silence**

* * *

It's the silence he finds most difficult, he's discovered.

When people are talking he knows what's happening. Even when it's the horrible English way of never saying quite what they mean he's become accustomed to using the tones and inflections in their voices to decipher their real meaning.

But in the silence he's lost.

He's finding it's the small things that hit him at the most unexpected times. He can't share a look with her over dinner, all the unspoken things they'd convey with a smile or an eye roll.

He misses looking across the table, seeing her silently supporting him with a promise in her eyes that it's only temporary, that they'll be back in their own home soon and a grateful smile on her lips, thanking her for tolerating the visits to Downton.

He wishes it was still only a visit.

It happens most nights. This time after Mary makes a choice remark about Edith's editor's frequent calls to the house.

He might have commented before but there's a silence following the remark and he knows he's excluded from anything happening in it.

He'll ask Sybil later and she'll tell him how Edith had simply shaken her head and looked away as Mary smirked.

How Matthew had given his wife a reproachful look and how she had responded with a careless shrug.

How Lord Grantham had looked like he wanted to comment but Cora had silenced him with a warning in her eyes.

How an entire conversation had occurred, in the one place he could no longer participate.

He doesn't know that yet though.

So he sits in silence and feels more alone than ever.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Inspired by a conversation with my lovely beta, babageneush. I will write more happy moments in this AU... Maybe.

**Safe**

* * *

He reaches for her as soon as he feels the bed dip on her side.

She climbs into his arms and settles her head on his chest, like she had the first night they'd spent here, when he thought they'd only ever be visiting. Now this first night is the first of a new life here. At Downton. A place representative of the life he'd promised to take her away from.

She sighs, breaking his train of thought, and a moment later he hears her voice.

"How are you?"

He wonders if she's turned the light out. She often didn't right away, it had been their habit in Dublin to read in bed before sleeping and even when neither of them had a book they'd leave the light on a while while they talked, or even just sat, holding one another in contented silence.

"It wasn't that bad. I mean... I know you don't want to be here but..."

He wonders if she put her dressing gown on before bed. He'd laughed the first time she'd done it, but she'd laughed with him. A habit left over from all the times a maid was there to attend to her. But she still did it sometimes even when it was warm and they were alone in their flat in Dublin. He would watch with amusement as she would change into her nightgown before slipping on a thin, silk dressing gown while she took down her hair, taking it off only a few minutes later.

"This isn't the worst, you know? I still remember when they told us there were deaths-"

The voice in the dark stops as he jumps suddenly, startled by an unexpected and unfamiliar noise from the end of the bed. His arms tighten around her and he feels his heart speed up. His eyes open wider instinctively but it's useless, it will always be useless.

"It was just my dressing gown falling off the chair," Sybil's voice says softly. "Sorry."

He feels her shift, her head moving off his chest and her arms move around his neck, holding him close. "Nothing to worry about," she assures him, her head now resting on his shoulder.

But the fear doesn't go away.

He wonders if it ever will.

He was never scared of the dark. Even as a child it had never bothered him.

Maybe because he had never realised what darkness truly was.

He knew now he had always, _always_ been able to see. Even when it was the middle of the night and the sky completely covered with clouds there had been light. Enough to make it to a candle. Enough to see things by. Enough to know when the sun rose it would be brighter...

He wonders why no one ever corrected him. When he'd described nights as 'completely dark' why had no one ever told him he only really meant 'very dark'.

He never knew true darkness until now.

And he is scared of the dark.

"Tom." Sybil's voice comes out of the darkness, and he focuses on it, on her body, on the touch of her hands and her arms around him. He feels safer with her but he can't help feeling distant as well.

She's still in the light.

"Tom, roll over."

"What?"

The words confuse him enough for a moment that he almost forgets his fear.

Almost.

"Turn around," Sybil repeats, "lie down, facing that way."

He does as she instructs, still not sure of the purpose. She moves away and the loss of contact makes him want to reach out for her but he hears the light switch being turned and then she's back, lying down behind him.

She doesn't speak but he feels her move closer, pressing her body to his, and bring her arms around his chest, pulling him back against her, a reversal of one of their favourite ways to sleep and he suddenly understands why she loves it so much.

He feels warm and loved and _safe_.

The darkness doesn't waver, even for a second, but lying in his wife's arms, feeling the warm solid presence of someone he loves and trusts so completely at his back, holding him close.

Tom no longer finds himself afraid of it.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Written for kinghanalister on Tumblr who posted a GIF as inspiration (link on my profile page). Thanks as always to babganeush for the beta.

**Grateful**

* * *

_Beautiful, gorgeous, adorable_.

The words run over and over in his mind.

The gushing, if expected, compliments from the well-wishers who attended the Christening of the Earl of Grantham's first grandchild ring in his ears. He smiles and nods at each one but he can only hear them so many times before he makes his excuses and, with Alfred's help, retreats to another room to find some peace from the aristocrats who now mill about the Abbey, enjoying the refreshments and discussing in hushed tones the _Catholic_ child they were here to honour.

Tom and Sybil had been more than surprised when, after weeks of resistance, Lord Grantham had announced that he would be happy to host a celebration after the Christening and that he was inviting some of his friends too.

They had been less surprised when the Dowager Countess, who _had_ surprised them with her support, had informed them she had "suggested" the idea and that she was inviting the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and her son to the event. Apparently a Duke at Downton was enough to make the Earl reconsider his intense opposition.

The ceremony had been beautiful, if unfamiliar to most in attendance. Sybil had looked almost as if she'd never been pregnant, and their daughter had been like an angel, looking so lovely all wrapped in her white Christening gown.

Or so Tom has been told.

To him the day was black, like every day since the raid on his Dublin office. And as much as he assures himself he'll get used to it, today is just another reminder of all the events in his daughter's life he'll never witness.

He's her father; he _knows_ she's beautiful without being told. He just so desperately wishes he could _see_ her to confirm it, even for a moment.

"Is everything alright?" Matthew's voice comes from his right and he feels a hand on his arm, a habit they're all learning to let him know where they are.

"If I said yes would you believe me?" Tom asks quietly, hoping no one else has noticed. It doesn't sound as if there are many people in this room though.

He hears the other man exhale a short breath, almost a laugh. "No," Matthew tells him bluntly. "I'm not even sure why I asked."

Tom shakes his head. "Everyone does," he assures him, "I appreciate the concern but... I just wish they'd stop most of the time."

"I understand," Matthew tells him, "I felt much the same after the War, when I couldn't walk..."

"I should be grateful really," Tom says after a moment, "I'm not dead."

"I knew men who envied the dead," Matthew says, his voice suddenly soft and Tom closes his eyes out of habit, as he remembers the sometimes horrific injuries he'd seen on the soldiers at Downton.

Matthew doesn't dwell though. "You have every right to feel sad and upset about what's happened," his brother-in-law assures him. "There will always be someone worse off but that doesn't make your feelings about your situation any less valid."

Tom lets the words sink in. "Who told you that?" he asks, picking up a rehearsed tone in the short speech.

"Your wife actually." Tom can hear the smile in his voice and finds his own mouth twitching, thinking of her in her nurses' uniform, helping wounded soldiers just by being herself. "When I thought I'd never walk again I felt I was being foolish and immature for not being happy I was alive... She told me if I couldn't be sad because someone else had it worse, then I ought never to be happy either, because someone else would always have it better. She rather set me straight."

Tom nods. "She does that," he says, with a laugh.

Matthew laughs with him. "That she does," he agrees. "So I hope you won't apologise... for feeling as you do. It's an awful thing that's happened to you."

From anyone else Tom thinks the words might sound as if they're meant for a child, but Matthew was injured once too, fighting for his country just as Tom had been, and he speaks plainly with no hint of another meaning.

"In more ways than one," Tom replies quietly, his good humour from a moment ago vanishing as he remembers again where he's forced to live, to seek refuge.

"I know you don't want to be here," Matthew tells him, "but there's not much to be done about that."

Tom nods, knowing it's the truth. He is lucky in a way, to have a place to go, when so many other working class men would have been forced into poverty in his situation.

"I want to help you know?" Matthew continues. "In any way I can. Mary too," he adds, though Tom is still not sure of Sybil's older sister's thoughts on him.

He feels a lump in his throat and simply nods again, collecting himself until he feels he can speak again, though the words still come out heavy with emotion.

"Thank you."

The stand together for a moment before Matthew speaks again.

"Now, come on." There's a light touch on his arm. "Sybil's been looking for you, she mentioned something about playing a song or two but her arms are a little full right now."

"There are plenty of other arms spare," Tom reminds him, even as he turns and feels Matthew take his arm.

"I don't think she trusts anyone else just yet," Matthew laughs and at the simple reminder that there's still at least one person who thinks he's not useless, Tom truly does smile.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Are you spoilt with all these updates yet? Have another!For an anon prompt on Tumblr: _Tom finds himself forced to ask Robert for help because of his condition. It's extremely uncomfortable for both of them. _Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Lost**

* * *

He should never have left their room.

The thought occurs to him as he turns and presses his back to the wall, letting his knees give way and sliding down to sit on the floor.

Now he supposes he'll just have to wait until someone finds him. Or yell out and hope they come.

He sincerely hopes for the former. If he calls out who knows how many people will hear him? If he's found, at least evidence of his uselessness won't be witnessed by so many.

He never should have tried to find her. Or, even before that, he shouldn't have tried to pretend he was alright and asked her to stay when she had mentioned needing to go downstairs and find a book she had been meaning to read.

Except she would have stayed with him had he asked and she would have hated it. She was now officially on bed rest until the baby was born but she had fought her parents until they agreed that walks down to the library every so often wouldn't kill either her or the child.

He'd just needed to hear her voice again. He should have waited, or rung the bell and asked Alfred to find her but he'd wanted to surprise her, show her he wasn't so useless that he was imprisoned in his room without her.

Now it was just another failure to add to his list.

He's just about to call out when he hears footsteps approaching. They're too heavy for his wife but he supposes he'll have to ask whoever it is because they're coming closer to where he's sitting.

He hears them round the corner and stop but whoever it is doesn't speak and Tom feels a sudden flare of frustration. He's _blind_ for Christ's sake, what did they think, he'd just _sense_ their identity?

"Who is it?" he snaps, losing his patience. With the person just standing there, with his own helplessness, with his life in general.

"It's... me." The voice is the very last one he wants to hear.

Of all the reactions the residents of Downton had had to his new... situation, Lord Grantham's had been the least understanding. It wasn't a huge surprise, Tom had to admit, Lord Grantham seemed to barely understand _anything_ to do with his Irish son-in-law and the relationship Tom had with his daughter.

Even when Tom made an effort he was unforgiving.

"_Clearly he's not ready to be out yet._"

It was only a few nights ago but the words from his first attempt at dining with the family again have stayed with him. They kept him in his room, barring the door, reminding him every moment that he wasn't even capable of eating with other people anymore. They kept him hidden away, where all shameful parts of the family were best to remain.

Now he's gone and proved him right again. He's proved him right about _everything_, about how unfit he is for his daughter, how he'll never be able to give her the life she wants, how he'll never be the man she deserves.

What more does he have to lose?

"I'm lost," he admits, almost laughing at the complete accuracy of the words, he'd been lost since he got here. For once he's glad he can't see Lord Grantham's face as he gathers his strength and puts aside his pride. "Perhaps you could help me back to my room?"

There's an awkward moment and Tom puts his hand on the wall and clambers to his feet, facing his father-in-law. "Or you could just tell me how many doors it is," he offers, "I know it's around the corner..." he trails off, the silence stretching on.

"Could you find Sybil then?" he asks, kicking himself for not having that thought earlier.

"No... I... uh, I'm going that way anyway," Lord Grantham tells him, sounding even more uncomfortable than Tom feels, which is something. "Here."

He feels a hand take his arm and turn him, facing the direction he'd come from. There's a tug and Tom starts walking, staying closer to Lord Grantham than he thinks either of them really want but further than he's really comfortable with when it comes to moving around the house now.

They take several slow steps in uncomfortable silence before it occurs to Tom that he has his father-in-law alone for the first time since they've returned to Downton.

He's been trying to find a way to speak with him since they had arrived. But Lord Grantham had made certain never to be left alone with him, though that was no real change from their last two visits.

He supposes he ought to say his piece now, while they're alone and the only opinion of him that will be affected is one that can barely get any lower.

"Can I ask something, Lord Grantham?"

There's a slight pause before a somewhat hesitant reply comes.

"I suppose."

If he wasn't so ashamed of what he was about to say he would have laughed at the apprehension in the other man's voice.

Instead he swallows and finds himself tilting his head down, shame overriding the reminder that the gesture is effectively pointless. He can see as much no matter where his face is pointed.

"I need to know you'll look after Sybil."

The words slip out more easily than he'd expected. He thinks perhaps, he had no pride left to stop them. Yet they still hurt.

"I don't understand." The confusion in the older man's voice is clear and Tom wishes he could for once, be just a little less... obtuse. "You're not going anywhere."

Tom almost laughs at that.

"No, I'm not. But I can't look after my family properly, not anymore," he states plainly, ignoring the lump in his throat as he relinquishes what little pride he still has left. He thought it should hurt more, to finally speak those words. To admit out loud that he has truly, finally failed as a husband and father

Just as Lord Grantham knew he would.

"I need to know that you will."

There's a long silence.

He _hates_ silence.

"She's my daughter." There's a hard edge to his reply, Tom thinks a mix of irritation and offence. "I will always take care of her."

He wonders if it's wise to continue the conversation at this moment. Lord Grantham hasn't stopped walking but his grip is slightly tighter and Tom thinks if the man wants to, he's rather helpless to stop him walking him to the top of the stairs and pushing him down.

"This is more than food and shelter," he tells him, slowly continuing their journey, resisting the urge to reach out and take hold of his arm for extra security. "We had savings, and we'd already bought a few things... But yesterday Sybil remembered we don't have a pram..."

It had seemed such a big thing to forget at the time. They'd had other things to deal with though, and Tom was just hoping he'd be able to even _hold_ his son or daughter without hurting them, he wasn't comfortable walking himself anywhere, let alone thinking of pushing a child around in a pram.

"We've used all our own money though... " he continues, hoping desperately Lord Grantham will allow him just one ounce of understanding and not make him continue. Not make him beg.

Another silence and Tom feels a pressure on his shoulder, a gentle push encouraging him to turn. They must have reached the corner.

"I will always look after my family." The words come just as Tom opens his mouth to speak again. He waits, expecting to hear condescension, victory in the tone, a reminder of how he'd been proved right and how utterly worthless Tom was now- but he finds none.

The statement sounds to him nothing more than what it is. An assurance that his wife and child will be cared for.

Tom wonders if he should ask, but Lord Grantham stops walking and his hand moves down Tom's arm and pulls his wrist up and forward. Tom lets him move it and a moment later he feels the cool metal of the door handle under his hand before the contact disappears completely.

"Thank you."

There's another moment of silence before a hand touches him lightly on the shoulder in a gesture he thinks could be intended to be comforting. But he doesn't have time to react before it's followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Written for everyhazyday on tumblr who gave me the prompt: _"__What about a Blind Tom fic that is something when his kids are older?"_

Also, there's a link to Tom's watch on my profile page. If you're interested. Which you may not be.

**Shoes**

* * *

"Shoes."

Tom Branson says the word firmly as he sits on the floor of his daughter Saoirse's bedroom in Downton Abbey.

He thinks at four years old- or almost five as he's reminded on a daily basis- she should be able to do it on her own but she still can't quite manage. Though if he's completely honest, he hopes she'll take a little longer. He can't help feeling sad every time she no longer needs his help with something.

Or, ever increasingly, when she's the one helping him.

He listens to her run around the room before dashing back to where he sits. There's a quiet thump as she sits down and a moment later two small shoes are pressed into his hands, followed shortly by an equally small foot.

He smiles as he takes the foot in his hand, she giggles as he checks which one it is with his fingers before putting down the other shoe and holding her foot steady as he double-checks he's holding the correct one before slipping it onto her foot.

He pushes it up and then moves to do up the buckle, slipping the strap through and holding the shoe in his hand while he runs his thumb along the strap to make sure it hasn't twisted before feeling along it to count the number of holes and make sure it's not too tight.

"And the other," he says after he's done the first, a well-practiced move that takes only moments.

"Why do we have to go?" his daughter asks, pressing her other foot into his hands.

"To watch the cricket match?" Tom asks, slightly distracted as he runs his thumb over the second shoe strap again. He's miscounted the holes he thinks, he takes her foot in his other hand, shifting so he can use his more sensitive index finger to recount.

"It's boring," Saoirse tells him.

"It's not that boring," he tells her, finally getting it right and putting her foot down. He reaches forward, unable to stop an amused smile as his fingers brush her face, feeling her exaggerated pout.

"It is," she insists. "You're not even playing. And Liam's not fun, he's too small."

Tom shakes his head. "Your mother would play if she was allowed," he assures her with a smile.

He thinks he'd play too, really. He's never played before, he'd never wanted to, and he wouldn't be very good but since he'd lost his sight he finds even being able to do something badly would be better than not being able to do it at all.

"And there'll be other children your age from the village there too," he adds, when the only reply from the girl is silence.

"S'pose," she mumbles, before giving a heavy sigh, as if a day of cricket is the most trying ordeal she's ever faced.

"Look, we're going to London tomorrow," he reminds her, "That'll be exciting."

Another sigh answers him and he shakes his head. "We're _going_ to the cricket," he tells her firmly. "It's important to your grandfather. Are you wearing your jacket?" he asks, taking his watch out of his pocket and flipping open the cover to check the position of the hands with his thumb. They're on time but only just.

"Yes," she says but Tom is used to listening past words.

He sighs and puts a hand out in the direction of her footsteps catching her arm. Her bare arm. "That doesn't feel like a jacket," he tells her, sending a disapproving look in her direction.

She gives another irritated grunt and he has to bite his cheek to stop from laughing. She's so like her mother already, rebellious and always attempting to get away with anything she can. They'll have trouble when she's older, he knows, but for now he's glad her rebellions are limited to small things like this- and that her lying is still terrible.

"Ready," she announces a moment later and he reaches out a hand to check she's not trying to trick him again.

"Good girl," he tells her, feeling the jacket. "Don't forget your bag too."

"Here," she tells him and he feels her swing the bag lightly against his hand. "Can we read?"

"At the cricket?" Tom asks, reaching out to pick up his cane before climbing to his feet. "Do you have a book?"

"Yes, will you read to me?"

"Is it one of Da's books?" he asks, holding his hand out and feeling her small one take hold.

"Yes," she tells him, "it's all bumpy."

"Well I suppose we can read," he tells her, hoping she's gotten a story book- though he'll just make something up if she's accidently taken one of his political ones.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he assures her with a smile. "Because... do you want to know a secret?" he asks, lowering his voice conspiringly and turning his head down to her.

"Yes," she answers eagerly.

"You can't tell your grandfather," he warns her seriously, as they make their way down the hall.

"I won't," she promises quickly.

Tom frowns, tilting his head as if he's listening very hard to check if anyone else is near. He nods after a moment, satisfied they're alone before crouching down, facing his daughter.

"I think cricket's boring too," he whispers, unable to help the grin that spreads across his face at the beautiful sound of his daughter's laugh.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** For The Yankee Countess' Fic War prompt of _"something again with Tom and the baby, but now their daughter is a little older—something sort of sweet and fluffy…maybe Sybil has had another baby, and Tom is sitting with their daughter and she's telling him all about the baby and what the baby looks like." _

Thanks as always to babgeneush for the beta.

**Small**

* * *

"He's _really_ small."

Tom just smiles and presses his lips to the top of his daughter's head.

"He'll get bigger," he promises, "just like George, and just like you did too. He might even be as big as Alfred one day."

Saoirse giggles at that. The footman is one of her favourite people and she's rather convinced he's the tallest person in the whole world.

Tom shifts, holding his daughter a little more firmly as he leans forward, putting his other hand out carefully until it makes contact with the cot and he's able to move it down to rest gently on the tiny life inside.

"He's awake," Saoirse tells him and he feels her lean forward on his lap. "His eyes are open."

"Are they?" His hand moves up until his fingers stroke the impossibly soft skin of his son's cheek.

"They're really blue."

All babies' eyes are blue, Tom remembers. He remembers blue too, the sky, the sea, Sybil's daring new frock all those years ago...

"What about his hair?" he asks softly, moving his hand up to the top of to boy's head.

"It's really soft," Saoirse tells him, and he feels her smaller hand join his, stroking the fine covering on her brother's head. "And brown."

"What else do you see?" Tom asks, kissing the top of her head again. He knows it's perhaps a bit much to ask of the four-year-old, to be her father's eyes if only for the moment, but he can't help it. He wants to know.

"He likes looking at us," she tells him, leaning further forward.

Tom thinks he'd rather like looking back if he could. It's not time to dwell though, this is time to spend with his daughter and son, time to spend reminding himself that the despair he'd felt when he'd first lost his sight is now nothing but a memory.

"I don't think he's happy," Saoirse announces suddenly and Tom draws his hand away immediately.

"Why not?" He shifts, ready to call the nanny or Sybil to come feed or change him.

"He's not smiling at us," Saoirse says seriously, "he's just looking."

"He's too young to smile just yet, love," he tells her, sighing in relief and reaching out again to brush his son's soft cheek.

"Oh," the girl says softly, before there's a silence and Tom wonders if she's thinking about it.

Sybil tried not to say anything at the start, worried he might be upset but he'd practically begged her to tell him all the things he was missing out on. To tell him what she _saw_ in their daughter.

Now she's grown used to it, and is confident he wants to hear, that she's only hurting him by denying him such things.

She's told him how when their daughter learns something new her face often scrunches up, her little nose crinkling and her forehead becoming creased as she digests this new piece of information.

He has an image of her in his mind, he knows the shape of her face and he's tried to convert it to something he might have once looked at but it will never be the same.

He tries to imagine that face in its thinking expression, wondering if that's what she looks like at this moment.

"When can he smile?" she asks after a moment, curiosity clear in her voice. Her thirst for knowledge is growing by the day and she asks more questions than he can count but he's always prepared to answer her.

Tom opens his mouth to respond but a memory interrupts him and he can't.

_He knew she did it without thinking, his wife doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. That didn't mean it didn't hurt when it happened, shortly after she finished changing their daughter as the still-new family sat together on the nursery floor._

"_Oh, look!"_

_His head turned automatically but of course, there was nothing for him to see. There was a horribly awkward pause before-_

"_Oh god, Tom, I didn't-"_

_He reached out, trying to calm her before she became too upset over her slip. "It's okay," he assured her, working hard to keep his voice steady. "What is it?"_

"_It's Saoirse," she told him, taking his hand and holding it up to her face. "She's smiling."_

_He moved his other hand down slowly and Sybil understood, wrapping it in her own and guiding him gently until his fingers brushed his daughter's face. At first he didn't feel anything, then she moved and he thought he felt her cheek move just a little.  
_

"_Is that-"_

"_Yes." He remembers Sybil's voice being thick with emotion as she held tight to his other hand. "Yes," she told him. "She's smiling at you."_

"I think you were just about two months old when you smiled at us, love," he tells her finally, back in the present, hoping she didn't notice his pain or hesitation.

She doesn't seem to be paying too much attention to her father though, not with a brand new brother who, despite not being able to do much more than look up at them from his cot, has commanded her complete focus.

"His feet are so little!" she exclaims, still fascinated by how _tiny_ he is.

Tom just laughs, holding her closer and reaching out lightly to brush his fingers over his boy's little feet, acknowledging they are indeed, very tiny.

"I like him," Saoirse declares suddenly, somewhat out of the blue, but sounding as if she'd been weighing the decision for a while.

"Well, that's good," Tom told her with a laugh, "because I rather love the both of you."

Saoirse shrieks as he withdraws his hand from the baby's cot and uses it to tickle her before simply wrapping both his arms around her and hugging her tight.

After a moment he moves his hand back to the cot, brushing a tiny hand, which grasps one of his fingers firmly, small but strong.

Tom knows he'll never see either of them but he knew even if he could he doesn't think it possible that he could love them any more than he already does.


	13. Chapter 13

Finally getting back to this AU! If you haven't already seen it I did write an M-rated blind Tom oneshot for smut week too. It's called _Explore_, check it out if you haven't already!

Anyway, I've had this little moment in mind for ages, hope you like it.

Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Fascinating**

* * *

The cricket is as tedious as Sybil remembers, but she doesn't really mind, she has other sights to occupy her.

Sybil prefers to watch her family.

Her husband lies comfortably on a blanket not far from where she sits. He's propped up on one elbow, lightly brushing a finger over his daughter's small foot, keeping in constant contact with her as the small child plays with a collection of blocks the new nanny brought for her.

It looks so natural and, if anyone with no knowledge of the family was passing by, they would have viewed it as a perfectly normal scene. Then Tom turns his head and it's impossible not to notice how dull his eyes are, how they stare blankly at nothing, unseeing.

There's a cheer from the pitch but when she looks up Sybil can't make out the reason for it. She smiles when she catches Matthew's eye before play resumes and Sybil finds her attention drawn back to more interesting things.

She watches as her daughter picks up a block and holds it out to her father. Her chest tightens as Tom doesn't respond seeming, perhaps to an outsider, to ignore his child, though everyone at the match knows the truth. That Lord Grantham's Irish son-in-law was blinded in a raid, that they've been forced to return to Downton, jobless and crippled...

The poor girl is too young to understand now, but Sybil's not so sure she's as entirely oblivious as they think.

"Bah!" she announces after a moment, demanding his attention.

Tom turns finally, smiling at her. "What's that, love?"

"Baba," Saoirse repeats, holding the block out further but her small hands slip and the block falls, landing on Tom's fingers.

He jumps at the impact but moves his hand away from her for a moment, sweeping it across the blanket, back and forth, until he finds where the block has come to rest. He smiles and holds it back out to his daughter.

"Here you go, darlin'." He offers the block back to her and Saoirse smiles as she takes it from him.

"Bah."

"Bah!" Tom repeats back, just as enthusiastically and he grins as he's rewarded with a bubble of laughter before the child returns to her toys.

Sybil's not sure what Saoirse's aim is as she piles two blocks up only to knock them down and start making a row, but it doesn't matter. She's fascinated by anything her daughter does.

This tiny life that she and Tom had created, that she had carried inside her for so many months, was turning into a person and Sybil can't stand to miss even a moment.

She watches as her daughter leans forward for a block, but tilts her head down just a tad too far and her sunhat topples onto the blanket.

The little girl ignores the fallen hat but her eyes squint against the light and Sybil's hand moves automatically to the armrest, ready to push herself out of the chair and swoop down to her child's aid.

But just before she can rise, Tom moves his arm and Sybil pauses as his hand comes in contact with the hat.

A frown creases his forehead as he picks up the bit of fabric and she watches as he turns it over in his hands, feeling the shape of it, trying to determine what it is.

A sudden rush of suspense fills her and she leans forward in her chair, willing him to figure it out. He would, she knew.

He could.

He wasn't as useless as he imagined. He never had been and Sybil hoped every day would be the day he finally believed her.

It doesn't take long before she sees him smile and flip the hat the right way up. He shakes the creases out before gently reaching forward until the tips of his outstretched fingers make contact with his daughter.

Saoirse raises her arms as the hat is pulled firmly down onto her head and looks up at her father, placing her tiny hands over his.

Tom grins and sits up, reaching out to pick up his daughter and place her on his lap where he can hug her properly and lean down to place a kiss on her head.

Sybil can't resist then, standing and walking the few short steps to join them.

"Everything alright?" She asks, kneeling down and running her hand along her husband's shoulders, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Tom turns to meet her next kiss and smiles.

"Just perfect," he promises her.


	14. Chapter 14

Written for my lovely beta, babageneush, who's been asking for ages for more Thomas in this AU. So here we are. Takes place just after _Touch_ (which is in a separate fic you can find on my profile page).

**Stairs**

* * *

His foot catches on the step and he feels himself tip forward.

But there's barely time to panic before a hand takes his elbow firmly and rights him.

"Careful, sir."

Tom closes his eyes. A pointless but unbroken habit as he feels the embarrassment wash over him.

Of all people, why Thomas?

He expects a snide comment, not outright perhaps, but a backhanded compliment.

He can only imagine what they all say of him downstairs now. It was bad enough at Mary's wedding, and if he wasn't good enough for Sybil then, he's certainly not good enough as a helpless cripple.

Thomas in particular had resisted, avoiding the former-chauffeur at all costs and, when forced to address him, had taken longer than anyone else to address him as 'sir'.

Not that Tom wanted any of them to call him that really.

The valet releases his elbow and steps back as Tom braces himself for the inevitable cutting remark.

But it doesn't come.

"Did you forget your cane, sir?"

Tom feels himself blink. He opens his mouth but it takes a moment to think of what to say, so unprepared not only for the question but the polite and level tone it's delivered with.

"You shouldn't be walking around without it, sir," Thomas tells him, sounding an awful lot like his wife.

"I don't want to use a cane," Tom says bitterly.

He knows he's promised Sybil but he hates it. It's irrational, he knows, to refuse to use something that could help him so much, but sometimes he feels as if he'll be truly accepting that his situation is permanent, that if he picks up that cane, he'll never be able to put it down ever again.

Thomas is silent for a long while and Tom finds it frustrating because without seeing his face there's no way to know what's going through his mind.

"I think, sir, what you don't want is to be blind. But you are."

That definitely sounded more like what Tom had expected.

"Thank you, I hadn't noticed," Tom mutters, instantly regretting the words. He sighs heavily, before Thomas can reply he adds, "I was just going back for it. I promised Sybil I'd use it..."

The next silence is even more awkward and Tom finds himself gripping the rail tighter.

Finally, the other man speaks.

"Would you like me to go and get it, sir?"

_No_.

"Yes, thank you."

He listens as Thomas walks away, his footsteps brisk but not too fast. Tom stays where he is, waiting until he hears him return, and feels the long, thin wood of his cane pressed into his hand.

"You can use the cane to help you down the stairs," Thomas tells him.

"I know how to walk down stairs," Tom replies, feeling himself tense again.

"Of course," Thomas assures him, politely not mentioning how Tom had almost tripped on them just before. "If you did want though, I could show you. It will be good practice."

"_I know it's hard but you can do it, Tom, you really can."_

Sybil's words come back to him and he wonders if she really did know how hard this is for him. It wasn't just having to relearn_ how_ to do everything, it was putting aside his pride and admitting he needed people to help him with it.

That was the hardest part.

"Thank you." Tom says, by way of accepting his offer.

"Until you're used to it, you should go slowly," Thomas starts. "You can use your cane to help you find the steps. You don't want to move it from side to side when going down stairs, just slide it forward until it drops down the step in front of you..."

He hesitates and Tom realises he's been issued an instruction.

He grips the cane like Sybil has showed him before and moved it forward, feeling ahead of him until the tip slides of the top step and slips down to hit the one below.

"That's right, and now you just follow."

Tom nodded and slowly moved his foot down to meet the tip of the cane, bringing the other to join it soon after.

"And just keep going like that."

Tom nodded, sliding the cane forward again until it fell down the next step. And he followed.

Slide, down.

And follow.

Slide, down.

And follow.

It's slow but Tom finds himself feeling increasingly confident with the cane.

He could hear Thomas staying with him, taking each step at his pace. The other man doesn't speak but the silence frustrates Tom after a while.

"Sybil said you used to help blinded soldiers, during the War."

There's a pause.

Slide, down.

And follow.

"I did."

He's getting better at picking up emotions in speech, unable now to rely on faces, but Thomas is practiced and Tom can't hear anything beyond the simple confirmation.

"Is that why you're being nice to me then?" Tom asks, only half-joking, he's truly curious as to the valet's uncharacteristic behaviour. "Force of habit?"

"Something like that, sir," Thomas replies, but this time Tom does hear something more, a slight waver, as if the valet went somewhere else for a moment.

If it had been someone else Tom might have pursued it. But he had never been close to Thomas, and he doesn't want to press so he lets the silence return.

Slide, down.

Follow.

Slide -

Tom frowns when the cane continues to move forward rather than dropping to the next step.

He had seen these stairs before, many times. He walked down them just as apprehensively the first morning they'd stayed for Mary's wedding.

"We're just at the first landing," Thomas tells him, clearly noticing his confusion.

Tom feels like an idiot. Of course. The stairs turned a corner and there's a small landing as they do.

He keeps his hand on the banister and the cane tight in his other as he uses the railing to help him turn until he feels the cane hit air and lets it drop again.

Slide, down.

Follow.

And repeat.

After less steps than before his hand hits something sticking up out of the banister and after that- nothing.

He pushes the cane forward and feels it continue along flat ground.

He's done it.

He feels a sudden rush of pride.

"Are you alright from here, sir?"

Tom swallows, trying not the let his happiness and relief show on his face. He's a grown man, walking down a flight of stairs should be something casual. Not something to celebrate.

"Tom!" Sybil's voice comes from in front of them and Tom smiles as he hears her walking closer.

"I am now," he assures Thomas. He smiles. "Thank you."

"Glad to help, sir."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** This little ficlet was written for dustedoffanoldie on Tumblr for the prompt 'stomach kiss'. Pretty pointless fluff. Enjoy!

**Laugh**

* * *

"Are you alright in there?"

The crying from the nursery only intensifies and Sybil finds herself regretting the question.

"I'm fine," her husband calls back, "_your_ daughter on the other hand..."

Another wail cuts him off.

"Well, _our_ daughter is fed _and_ dry."

"Tell her that!"

She debates whether or not to go help. Even though her maternal instinct is telling her to run to her crying child, she hesitates, wondering if her actions might imply she doesn't trust him.

Tom is a wonderful and perfectly capable father but he has yet to believe it himself. Losing his sight all but destroyed his confidence and Sybil desperately doesn't want to do anything to impact what little of it they've managed to rebuild.

She tugs her brush through her hair and frowns when the most unexpected noise comes suddenly from the nursery. There's a moment of silence before Saoirse giggles and she hears Tom laugh before the noise comes again.

She's through the door without thinking this time, curiosity getting the better of her.

"What _are_ you doing?"

His grinning face turns to her voice as she enters, Saoirse lying on her back in front of him, smiling and kicking her feet.

"Listen."

Sybil watches as he puts his mouth to his daughter's stomach and blows, causing the small girl to squeal with laughter again and wave her arms in delight.

Tom turns back to his wife.

"Listen to her, she loves it!"

"She's probably laughing at what a ridiculous man her father is," Sybil tells him, trying to sound stern but she knows he'll hear her smile.

Tom continues to grin as he shakes his head. "Come here," he orders her, holding his arm out.

Her hand reaches to join his automatically, letting him pull her down beside them.

"Listen."

He repeats the action again and she thinks his face might split in two as Saoirse gives another fit of laughter.

Tom turns to her and waits expectantly.

Sybil shakes her head. "Oh, for goodness sake."

Feeling slightly ridiculous herself, Sybil leans forward and places a kiss on her daughter's impossibly soft stomach before blowing like she'd seen Tom do.

Saoirse's laughter fills the nursery once more and Sybil can't help but join in.

"Listen? She loves it."

Sybil shakes her head.

"And we love a _ridiculous_ man, don't we, my dear?"

Her daughter just grins and laughs at both of them.


	16. Chapter 16

This chapter is dedicated to the supremely talented piperholmes who celebrates her birthday on the 18th of August. So as it's the 18th for me, Happy Birthday, Piper!

Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Work**

* * *

"Two for you. Mr. Branson."

"Two? Goodness."

"Is that good or bad?" Matthew asks from the across the breakfast table. Tom can hear the amusement in his voice.

He shrugs.

"We'll have to see."

"Thank you, Carson."

The slide of paper on metal follows his wife's voice as she takes his mail off the silver tray he knows is right beside his ear. A ridiculous tradition if he ever knew one.

"The third is for you, milady," Carson adds, rather unnecessarily in Tom's opinion. Unlike him, Sybil can still read.

He hears her open one of them but at her "Oh, it's from Elisabeth." he continues with his meal, letting her catch up on her friend's news first.

"What's everyone's plans for today?" Matthew asks.

"I was thinking of going to Ripon," Edith says, though she sounds bored by the prospect.

"Tom?"

He shrugs. "I'm not sure. "I'll go up to the nursery after dinner but Nanny will have my head if Saoirse's sleeping and I wake her."

Sybil sighs beside him and he hears the paper refolded and slid back into its envelope.

"What news from dear Elisabeth?"

"The same mindless chatter of who's wearing what in London."

Her reply to her sister is short and tired and Tom knows tonight he'll hear another lament on how she can't believe the women she had once called friends seem so incapable of caring about anything that actually matters.

Her voice comes again, this time directed at him.

"Do you want yours now? One's from your brother, though it's a miracle it got here with his handwriting."

Joe, then. Kieran never writes and Liam's script is legible.

But Joe's also staunchly anti-English. When Tom had lost his sight, Joe's love for his youngest brother had let him put aside his hatred and encourage him to take Lady Grantham's offer of refuge, but now he seemed to have regained his passion and his letters were often filled with tirades against the English powers. Even with the Earl already started on his morning it be best to read his letter after breakfast.

"I'm sure that can wait, where's the other from?"

"_The Manchester Times_. It's quite thick."

"Really?"

That's surprising. Rejection letters are usually one page. Not to mention he'd only sent off the article yesterday. He'd included a letter explaining his situation as an Irishman living in England though Sybil had convinced him to leave out the issue of his blindness, assuring him it was completely irrelevant.

"Do you want this one now?"

He hesitates.

But there's so much excitement in her voice and he can't bring himself to deny her.

"Might as well."

He hears the tear of the paper and the rustle as she unfolds it and begins to read.

"Oh."

Tom waits for more but she doesn't continue and he tries not to get frustrated.

"What is it?"

"They've accepted your article and they've sent payment... and a request for another... If you want."

The last part is almost breathless and she's smiling too, her joy plain to hear.

"What?"

He hadn't been expecting that.

"Well done," Matthew congratulates him but Tom isn't listening.

He remembers the argument when she first came home with the typewriter. He remembers how upset he was, how he had been angry she couldn't see it would never work. He remembers how she had never given up.

She read the paper to him every day, and sat with him for hours as Thomas would instruct him on the new machine, helping him type out words, slowly turning them into readable sentences.

How does she always have so much faith in him?

"Excuse me." He retrieves his cane from where he left it, resting against the table. But he knows this room well and he hardly makes use of it as he leaves, hurrying away before he breaks in front of them.

* * *

The door opens and there's only one person it could be.

He stands from where he had been sitting on the bed, opening his arms and embracing her as she steps into them.

"Sorry."

"Why?"

He laughs, the sound slightly choked by the fact he's been crying since he left the breakfast room. But only she wouldn't see why he had to apologise for running off suddenly in the middle of a meal with her family.

"I didn't mean to run off like that but..."

Her hands come up to rest on his face. He feels her breath, her nose brushing his, she always hesitates now, just a moment to let him know what she's doing but he wonders why. As if he would ever not want to kiss her.

When they part he rests his forehead on hers, still grinning madly and crying with joy.

"I just... I didn't think I could do this anymore."

"Oh, _Tom_."

"God, sorry." He laughs again, wiping his tears away as he shakes his head. "I'm being a fool, I know."

"You're _not_. Not at all." She wraps her arms tightly around him, kissing him gently. "I won't ever lie to you and tell you you'll be able to do everything you used to, but you can do this and do it well. I am _so_ proud of you every day. But then I always knew you would."

"I'm glad one of us did."

She kisses him again and this time it's firmer; it's joy, happiness and _pride_. He can feel it in every fibre of her body as she presses into him, her hands tangling in his hair, deepening the kiss and pulling him closer still until they part, breathless and laughing.

"I can work."

"I know."

"We can have our own money."

"I know."

The smile in her voice is obvious and soon they're both laughing.

Another thought occurs to him.

"We could even hire someone... I mean, I know you miss the hospital."

He feels the change immediately, her body going tense and she steps back, still in his arms but no longer close.

"I'd miss you more."

The hesitation and her tone say more than her words. There's something behind them and he wonders if he's offended her. He didn't mean to, he only worries sometimes because he knows she's lost her independence too, forced to stay with him instead of working like he had once promised her she would always be able to do.

"Besides, you're almost completely independent anyway. You barely need _me_ anymore. They're be no need for another nurse."

He hears the forced casualness in her tone as she steps away completely, trying to sound light and deflect attention from all the unspoken feelings in her last comment.

He lets that pass at least, knowing the discussion is best left to another time, she'll talk about it when she's ready.

But he's not prepared to let her go just yet. He holds out his hand to the dark and only a moment later she takes it, as he knows she always will.

"I need you," he tells her firmly, "I've needed you from the moment I first fell in love with you. Don't ever believe anything different."

Another kiss. He'll never get tired of them.

"You ought to get to work then, Mr. Branson," she orders as she steps away again. "If I'm to be a kept woman I'll need my husband earning, won't I?"

He laughs as he makes his way to his desk, just as eager to be started. He sits and props his cane up smiling as he listens to her move around behind him, humming happily.

"If I'd known _this_ was how it was going to be once I found work again..."

Her hands fall on his shoulders, her breath on his cheek as her voice comes next to his ear, light and teasing. "You'd have done _what_, Mr. Branson?"

He turns with a smile, his lips brushing hers before he replies.

"I'd have started much sooner."


	17. Chapter 17

Another birthday fic for Piperholmes! I had two ideas in mind for her and in the end I decided she's aweosme enough that she deserves both :P

This fic is the companion piece to Dinner or chapter 6 of this fic. This is Tom's first dinner with the family post-injury, from Sybil's POV.

Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Dinner (Sybil)**

* * *

She wonders if she should feel guilty for not declining his offer when he brought it up.

But she tells herself it will be good for him.

No matter how clear it is he doesn't want to do it.

They dress in relative silence. He learnt to dress himself again very quickly, though he still needs her to lay out his clothes in front of him before he does. And she still inspects his efforts before they leave the room (or _if_ he leaves the room, which is not often).

He had gotten angry with her the first time he'd made a mistake and she had hesitated to point it out, fearing it would hurt his feelings. He'd asked if she would rather he look like an idiot too. But it had been short-lived, not even qualifying as an argument really. It was his injury but their burden and they were both navigating this new world together, both making mistakes and learning from them at the same time.

She feels odd watching him now, because he never knows. It feels like spying, when he can't tell if he's being observed or not. But she can't help herself. It's an old habit, observing him. From when she would sit on the bench in the garage and watch him fixing the cars, still so young and innocent, finding a thrill at being in such close proximity to a man with bare arms.

She would wonder at the odd flutterings in her stomach when he would reach for a tool and she could see his muscles moving so clearly. Or why it was she found his hands so fascinating when he worked, watching for hours as they deftly sorted through the inner workings of the motor, somehow knowing exactly where they were needed.

Now his hands work on his bowtie, his fingers moving slowly, feeling their way into the complicated knot. His face creases in a frown, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth as he concentrates.

She jumps when his eyes turn to her but of course, he doesn't notice.

Nonetheless, she tears her own gaze from him and checks her hair again until he announces he's finished and she walks over to him, not missing the nervousness that radiates from him.

"You'll be fine," she promises, taking his face in her hands and kissing him gently. "Do you want your cane?"

She knows the answer already.

"Not if I have you."

"Always."

She doesn't understand his resistance to using a cane, not when he so desperately needs it. But then she supposes she doesn't understand what he's going through either. All she can do is be there for him, whenever he needs.

They don't talk about what they might do as her pregnancy progresses, she tries to hide from him that she's already getting tired and finding it harder to move. She'll be bed bound soon but they still avoid the subject.

She fought her mother in Ireland and her father again in Downton when they insisted it would be best for everyone to hire a nurse for him. _She_ was a nurse and she was perfectly capable of caring for her husband. She had been immensely relieved when they gave in at that.

Tom was terrified. She remembers watching him rub his eyes raw when he woke, trying desperately to understand what was happening. Why he couldn't see. He's scared and already in a vulnerable position and the very _last_ thing he needs is a complete stranger helping him with personal tasks. He still can't shave by himself and Sybil's not yet comfortable letting him get out of the bath alone either.

She remembers the first time she'd heard the word 'blind' used to describe him. She had cried, because he wasn't _blind_, he was _Tom_. He was her husband; a wonderful, loving, hard-working man who just happened to be unable to see. But no one, not even him, seemed to be believe it.

They arrive in the drawing room last. At first she's put out but when Matthew and her father stand at her entrance she wonders if it was purposeful. So Tom wouldn't feel awkward when the other ladies entered and he didn't know when he had to stand.

Aside from Edith mentioning how nice it was to see Tom down, no one brought up the rare occurrence of the Bransons being at dinner, instead focusing on the arrival of the first grandchild.

"It won't be long before you'll be unable to join us," her mother says fondly. Tom's grip on her arm tightens slightly and her hand comes up automatically to rest on his.

"Hopefully still a while," she replies, hoping to comfort him, "I feel perfectly capable for a few weeks yet."

"You must be excited though."

She sees Tom smile at Matthew's words and her heart lifts.

"Very," she answers for both of them.

The discussion moves on. Fashion, the estate, the next Season. Nothing that requires their input.

"Dinner is served, Your Ladyship."

Tom's grip tightens again at Carson's voice and she moves closer to him as they stand together. Matthew hesitates and she sees him wondering if he should offer assistance.

Sybil gives him a small smile but shakes her head and he nods, continuing in. Matthew had been more supportive than Sybil could have ever dreamed. At Mary's wedding she had wondered if her cousin was just being polite and acting out of duty but in the weeks following Tom's injury he had proven himself a true friend to her husband and the only other person Tom didn't mind helping him. But she knew he wouldn't want extra assistance down here, in front of everyone.

"Here, sit." She keeps her voice quiet and places his hand on the back of the chair once they reach the table, everyone taking their seats, ready to begin.

He manages the soup.

She knew he would.

It's a simple meal, one utensil, no separate pieces.

No one talks to him, which is rather the norm anyway so it hardly bothers her. Matthew drives the discussion, bringing up the estate and issues surrounding it. Occasionally the comments are terser than a dinner conversation should be but Sybil finds herself grateful for the way it draws attention from Tom.

Not entirely though.

She's never found a reason to be thankful for his injury.

_Never_.

Even when her whole family is looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. Watching this strange creature who looks so familiar but moves so differently...

Even now, she wishes he could see them.

Carson, either unsure or unkind, but clearly wanting to avoid a repeat of when he stood unnoticed with the soup, suddenly feels the need to announce loudly when he's ready to serve Tom. An act that only draws attention to the Irishman's disability.

The first time he loudly asks if he would like any fish, Tom jumps at the unexpected volume and his face flushes before he declines in a quiet voice. But the second time it happens a rebuke comes from an unexpected source.

"Carson, I do believe it's only Branson's sight that's gone, not his hearing."

Her grandmother's voice cuts cleanly through Carson's stern demeanor and Edith puts a hand to her mouth but doesn't quite manage to stifle her laughter. The butler at least has the grace to look properly chastised. Sybil gives her grandmother a smile and is pleased, and surprised, when she receives a supportive and genuine one in return.

She could kiss Alfred though. It's clear Mrs. Hughes hasn't given any instruction or Carson wouldn't be so awful, but Alfred bends almost in half every time he reaches Tom, stating quietly but clearly what his dish is before offering to serve it up for Tom, if he wishes.

Tom accepts his help gladly, and for the next little while things go smoothly.

But of course it doesn't last.

She's not the first to notice.

She should be, she hates herself for it later.

Mary and Matthew are still deep in conversation, having not realised either. She knows he's only listening to that. That if people are talking he thinks all is well. Except Matthew and Mary soon see it too.

They at least, are polite enough to pretend they haven't. Everyone else merely watches as he picks slowly and blindly through his vegetables, the last one still eating. His brow is furrowed and she know how hard it is, trying to find the food to start and then to get it properly on the fork. Several times he's raised it to his mouth only to find nothing on it.

_Say something_, she all but screams.

But they've all noticed then, and though Edith strikes up a conversation with Isobel to pass time, her father is staring at Tom, as if his inability to eat at the same speed as everyone else is a personal affront to his deepest beliefs.

She's just about to- she really is.

She's ready to lean over, a hand on his arm, a quiet word but...

"Really, Tom, if you insist on eating at that pace we'll all be here until sunrise."

Tom freezes.

A flare of anger shoots through her. "Why don't you try eating with your eyes closed and see how you like it?"

"I'm done anyway," he says quietly, suddenly dropping his fork as if it had burned him. It lands with a clatter on his plate and the whole family watches as several unfinished peas scatter across the tablecloth.

Alfred steps forward promptly to remove his plate, collecting the errant vegetables as if he did so for everyone.

"I hope you're still feeling well, Sybil," Matthew says suddenly, "what date has Dr. Clarkson given you again?"

Sybil finds herself replying without thought, her mind still focused on Tom. She wishes he would put his hands down again, so she could find them with her own under the table and offer him support.

Despite the forced start Matthew had forged, the conversation soon starts to flow naturally, eventually splitting into groups. Isobel, sitting on Tom's other side, ropes him into a discussion about gardening of all things.

"One of my cousins has a vegetable garden she's very proud of," Tom says hesitantly in reply to Isobel's question about his experience in the area.

"Oh, there's nothing more satisfying than eating something you've grown yourself," she agrees wholeheartedly and Sybil feels herself relaxing slightly as her cousin takes charge of the conversation, requiring minimal input from her husband while still including him.

She relaxes, keeping an eye on him but allowing herself to be drawn into other conversations now, engaging in Mary's speculation about their annual visit to Scotland.

She doesn't see it happen.

She only hears the shattering and the hiss of pain as she turns to find Tom holding his hand to his chest, two broken glasses in front of him. His face is flushed but he ducks his head to hide it, his eyes tightly closed.

She blinks, trying to piece together what happened. Out of the corner of her eye she sees her mother exchanging hushed words with her father, who looks angry.

Her heart sinks.

He was doing so well.

She wonders how long it will be before she can talk him out of their room again.

"Are you okay?" Mary breaks the silence, making Sybil feel useless once again.

"Sorry." He keeps his head down, holding his hand close.

"You're bleeding," Sybil says stupidly, immediately regretting it. Of course he is, and of course he would already know that, the blood already running down his fingers and dripping onto his pant leg. What on earth did he gain except more embarrassment by her pointing it out?

"It's okay."

His hand closes, blood pooling in his palm but Sybil gets up and takes it in her own, leaning over him to inspect the injury, her free hand finding his head. She strokes his hair gently, trying to offer what little comfort she can as she feels him shaking under her touch.

Isobel leans over, one hand on Tom's arm before giving it a pat and announcing to the table, "It's nothing serious. Just a little cut."

"And two of our best glasses."

Sybil's head snaps up so fast she almost hears it crack.

"That's hardly important." Matthew's tone is tense and he gives his father-in-law a hard look.

"Tom's done very well," Edith adds and Sybil feels her heart swell at their defence. She gives them both a grateful smile, words unable to express her thanks at their support.

"I think-"

"Clearly he's not ready to be out yet," her father announces, ignoring Tom's attempt to speak.

"Robert!"

"Papa." Her own voice is a weak echo of her mother's, tearing from her throat of its own accord. She meant to sound angry but she's so hurt by his words she merely sounds as if she might cry. Which only makes her angry at herself and her inability to be strong for him.

"Maybe we should go clean my hand up."

Tom's voice is only just louder than a whisper and it's the obvious suggestion but Sybil almost wants to argue. She wants to stay until her father has apologised for his despicable and cruel behaviour and Tom knows an accident is nothing to be ashamed of at all.

"I think that would be best."

She regrets it later, not replying to her father then, but she's still so shaken by his utter disdain for the fact that Tom was even willing to _try_. His complete lack of understanding about how much courage it had taken for his to ever bring up the idea of dining with the family to her. But her throat is tight and she knows there's no argument to be won if she's making her point through tears.

Their exit is mercifully quick, Alfred jumping to hold the door open for them. It takes more time to go up the stairs but they somehow manage to reach their room just as Anna arrives with some bandages and a basin and towels for them.

Sybil thanks her and doesn't bother to change as she fills the basin with water and sets to caring for her husband.

"Hold still," she instructs him, carefully washing away the blood and making sure no shards remain in the wound. He obeys, following every instruction mechanically, his face expressionless as she works.

"You did well tonight," she tells him, hoping to start him talking.

He continues to hold his hand out in silence as she finishes wrapping the bandage around it.

"You did, and one little accident is nothing to be upset about."

"Not according to your father."

"And when has my father's opinion ever mattered to you?"

She watches his jaw clench and she remembers as well. How no one else had truly spoken against her father's assertion he was unfit to keep their company.

Not even her.

"Tom."

He refuses to respond.

She takes his face in her hands and tilts it up to hers, setting her forehead against his. "_Tom_-"

_- look at me _she doesn't add.

She knows he hears it regardless.

He turns away, the gesture wholly symbolic. He can't see her no matter where he faces.

He never will again.

"He was right."

Her heart breaks at the defeat in her husband's voice.

"I can't do this, Sybil."

"No."

She surprises even herself with the strength of her voice but she means it. She reaches out to turn his head to her again, kissing him firmly.

"No," she repeats. "You can. This is nothing. You think you're the first person to break a glass in there? The first to make a mistake- not even that. You had an _accident_ but now you learn. You get back on the horse. You don't let this defeat you."

He reaches up, his fingers just brushing her cheek. She takes his hand gently, kissing his palm. Her own hand finds his face and she smiles as he leans into her touch, his expression softening into a slight smile.

But then he pulls away and lets it fall back, his eyes closing as his shoulders slump. She feels her hope vanish as he lowers his head to the floor.

"I'm sorry."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Written partly in response to an anon request for a moment with Tom and his daughter where "_Tom realises that she will only ever know him as blind, but it doesn't matter at all to her because he's just her Dad - and so she just accepts him as he is."_

Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Heard**

* * *

Tom stands as he hears the Dowager Countess enter the library.

Her footsteps are some of the most distinctive, though he's surprised to hear she's alone.

"Oh, is it only you?"

Clearly they're not bothering with pleasantries today.

"Sybil's taken Saoirse for a walk," Tom informs her. "I only got back from Crawley house a few minutes ago. Thought I'd wait here for them."

He hears her sit and takes his own seat again.

"Well, I came to speak with Sybil but I suppose we can manage until she arrives."

He bites back a laugh. Though she has accepted she will never change her granddaughter's mind, Tom has more than a small suspicion the elder Lady Grantham will never fully accept a former chauffeur as a worthy conversation partner.

"How is your writing?"

At least she knows what to say to him.

"I've sold two more articles this week, though not the sort you're likely to read."

She sniffs.

"I suspect you're right. Still no luck with a permanent position?"

Tom frowns, detecting a slight barb in her words, but they're delivered with the tone of a genuine question so he answers genuinely as well.

"They're happy to buy something already written but it would seem no one wants to take a chance on hiring a blind writer permanently."

"Seems it's not much of a chance if you've already proven you can write well enough for their paper."

That does surprise him. Though, for all her disapproval, he has to admit she's never belittled his occupation or work like her son.

Before he can think of a response, his ears pick up the sound of the door opening and he smiles before he even hears them call out.

"Da!"

He laughs as he hears her run towards him, stopping to greet her great-grandmother politely before tapping his knee impatiently until he moves his arms, allowing her to climb up onto his lap. "Did you have a good walk, love?"

"A good run, more like." His wife's slightly breathless voice follows her daughter's footsteps and Tom turns his head up when he feels her hand on his cheek, meeting her lips with his own in greeting, both ignoring her grandmother's sniff of disapproval. Her touch disappears and he hears her sit.

"Look what we found." A small hand takes his, pulling it out flat and a hard, round object is placed in his palm.

"Careful, it's fragile."

Tom nods at Sybil's warning, moving his thumb gently to roll his daughter's prize to his fingertips where he can get a better idea of what it is.

Saoirse is quiet while her father examines the object but she doesn't stop moving, still a ball of energy from her walk.

It takes him a little longer than he would have liked to make her wait but the item isn't something he's held before, though his fingers are sensitive enough now that it's not long before he forms an image of it and realises what it must be.

"It's a snail's shell."

"Fred gave it to me!"

"Fred?" Tom laughs at her excitement. Sybil loves the gardens and her enthusiasm had more than endeared her to the head gardener who always seemed to have something new to show her when she happened to pass by his shed.

"Yes." Saoirse shifts excitedly on her father's lap, retrieving her prize from his hand before taking a deep breath. "He said he found it when he was planting roses but he already has some and he asked if I wanted it and I said yes but Mama says I have to ask Nanny if it will be okay for the nursery. Also, we saw Isis with Thomas and Thomas said tomorrow he'll show me how Isis plays catch in the lake because grandpa said she could swim and-"

"You know, my dear," Violet's clipped tones cut right through the girl's chatter. "In my day, children were to be seen and _seldom_ heard."

"But Da can't see."

Sybil gives a laugh that's more surprise than anything else and he hears a faint sniff from the other chair but Tom finds himself somewhat without words for the moment.

It's the utter confusion in her question which hits him. She sounds genuinely baffled as to why her grandmother would suggest she not describe her day to her father. How else can she let him know what's been happening?

She states the fact like any child who knew something so absolute would state it. The sky is blue, Alfred is tall, Isis is a dog and her father can't see.

When she has something to show him it goes in his hand, when she wants to get his attention she must make a sound, when she wants to connect with him it has to be through touch or speech.

That's simply how things are, how things have always been in her world.

"Even so my dear," the Dowager continues. "Adults do like some quiet now and then."

"Let's go upstairs," Tom decides, before anyone else can contribute, having recovered his voice. "You can tell me me all about what you saw in the gardens without offending your grandmother's outdated notions and your mother and her can have some quiet."

He picks up his cane from when he'd rested it on the chair and hoists Saoirse onto his hip, not even bothering to hide his smile as his wife laughs and the Dowager refuses to acknowledge his comment.

* * *

"You must have tired her out today."

"Asleep already?"

He smiles as he feels his wife come up behind him to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head on his shoulder. He had barely gotten one story finished before he'd heard the little girl's breath even out as she'd drifted off.

They stay like that for a while, his hand resting on his daughter's chest, taking comfort in the slow rise and fall of her breath.

"You're so good with her."

He nods, letting the quiet return for a few moments before speaking softly.

"It's odd you know... When I was younger, even before I met you... I had all these ideas, all these plans of what it would be like to be a father. All the things I would do with my children... I never could have planned that I'd be doing it all in the dark. That my children would never know me as anything other than blind."

Sybil shifts, moving around to embrace him properly, placing a firm kiss on his lips.

"The only thing that little girl ever thinks of you as is her father," she reminds him, because of course he should already be able to tell that.

Tom nods, kissing his wife again. He does know it's true of course. Yet he still thinks about it. He doubts he'll ever stop.

He doesn't mention how he'd always tried to imagine what his children would look like.

He still has to.

"I know we talked about it when we got married, but we haven't ever really discussed it since..."

Sybil's voice trails off almost apprehensively and Tom frowns.

"Discussed what?"

There's no reply but he feels a tug on his arm and nods, following her back into their bedroom and waiting patiently as she shuts the door to the nursery before continuing.

"Do you want more?"

Tom blinks. He hadn't been expecting that.

"More children?"

"Yes."

Sybil had let go of him as they returned to their own room but now he steps forward, not content to have this particular discussion with only her voice. Her hands meet his and she lifts her head as he raises a hand to her face.

"What brought this on?"

"I've been thinking of it for a while. But just today, watching you with her, playing with her, putting her to bed… I want more."

"One not enough?" he teases, smiling wider as she laughs lightly.

"She's more than enough. If we only ever have her I'll never say our life was incomplete. But that doesn't mean I don't want her to have siblings. Or us to have more children."

Tom nods again, knowing exactly what she means.

"You're the one who'll be doing all the work."

"We used to say we wanted more than one."

"We did," he agrees, "but that was before I lost my job and my sight."

"You earn enough now, even if it is freelance," Sybil says confidently. "And _The Tribune_ has hinted they might offer you a permanent place soon."

"I think the fact they've only hinted says a lot."

"No, it will happen."

Tom wishes she had her faith.

"When did you want this sibling for her then?" he asks, instead of dwelling more on his unreliable income.

"I think soon. I don't want too many years between them and she's almost four."

Her words are fast and clear; she's considered this a lot he realises.

"Well then," Tom smiles, pulling her in for a kiss. "What are we waiting for?"


End file.
